I like dead flowers

I think there’s something so sad and poetic about flowers that have withered and died. Especially if there’s still some color left to remind you of what once was: a healthy, vibrant flower. I’d add in something about comparing dead withering plants to life but that would be pushing the emo factor, and it’s too early in the day for me. And also because this entry is about LIFE (sort of).
I’ve always wanted to grow a garden. Even just a little one, with a few flowers and maybe some vegetables I actually would eat, like tomatoes. The only problem with that is that I live in the Sunshine State which is the most misleading bullshit I’ve ever heard. It really should be called The Closest To Hell You’ll Ever Get state or maybe Satan’s Favorite Hang Out. Something to that extent because it’s impossible to step outside without diving for the nearest shaded spot so that your skin doesn’t melt off into a puddle of singed flesh.
So I imagine that plants wouldn’t do quite well over here, unless you had a sprinkler hitting them at full speed 24/7. My mom had some azaleas and they bloomed for maybe four days before giving up. Anyway I promised myself that when I move back to a cooler area I’ll go to the nearest Wally World and plant a few things, see how it goes. In the meantime, I’ll just take pictures of the flowers that have surprisingly made it down here, like this one I spotted a few days ago:

Just look at that courageous survivor. I’m almost jealous that it loves to get nutrients from the sun and happily basks in the heat rather than saying “Fuck it” and burying itself deep deep in the ground while whining about living in Hell like I wouldn’t do.
I like growing things to a certain extent, but after awhile I get bored. I think the first picture is beautiful; it’s strange that death can be so gorgeous.
(lol @ hell.com)